


it's not the waking, it's the rising

by Flowerparrish



Series: the fire that ignites [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Angst, vampire! Steve Rogers, witch! Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22757773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: Clint thinks, after seven years with this coven, after five years helping run the bar, that he’s seen everything.And then a baby vamp stumbles in, clearly starving, and Clint’s suddenly certain he hasn’t seen everything yet.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Series: the fire that ignites [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665919
Comments: 23
Kudos: 143
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	it's not the waking, it's the rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Arson, my best bro, I do not even remember what you asked me for, so I really hope you enjoy whatever this ended up becoming. <3 Happy (late) Valentine's Day. 
> 
> For Clint Barton Bingo Round 2, square: vampires

Clint has been working at a supernatural bar slash hangout for five years, and he thinks he’s seen everything. The Witch’s Brew is a stupidly named, but nonetheless pretty cool, place to work.

The name makes them sound like they’ll serve hipster microbrews and shit—which, don’t get him wrong, Clint is totally into—but in reality, they serve… pretty much everything that can be made into a drink. Seawater mixed with lemonade served with a side of seaweed crisps for the merfolk? You bet. A Bloody Mary, but heavy on the blood, for the discerning vampires in the crowd? You got it.

The place is popular with those in the know, and more than that, it’s neutral territory. No one can fuck with anyone inside—as much as Clint would _love_ to break that rule himself sometimes—because of the heavy wards on the place laid there by the ancestors of the lead of his coven.

The place is owned by Kate, a young witch-in-training who will nonetheless inherit leadership of the coven when she’s done. Until then, Clint’s the unfortunate stand-in by way of simple breadth of experience.

That, and he runs the bar, and he helps with Kate’s training when he’s needed.

So, Clint thinks, after seven years with this coven, after five years helping run the bar, that he’s seen everything.

And then a baby vamp stumbles in, clearly starving, and Clint’s suddenly certain he hasn’t seen everything _yet._

**

The first night, he doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place. He gets the guy a drink and leaves him to it. The guy leaves, and he leaves a decent tip along with the cash for the drinks, and Clint feels a little warmer to him for it.

So the next time the guy makes his way in, still stumbling and clearly half-starved, Clint says, “Hey, you’re back. What’s your name?” He’s already making a drink, and he doesn’t know that he honestly cares if the guy has money. He clearly needs the blood that’s in it more than anything.

“Steve,” the guy says after a moment, slumping into a chair and blinking at Clint, eyes wary. “You remember me?”

Clint winks at him, says, “I always remember a pretty face,” and shoves him his drink. He’s off down the bar moments later, dealing with the other customers, and doesn’t get a chance to head back to Steve’s spot until the vamp’s long gone.

He’s left another ridiculously generous tip.

Clint pockets the cash and thinks, _next time._

He really, really hopes there will be a next time.

**

There is.

Steve stumbles in just after sunset, before things have properly gotten going for the evening, paler than any vampire has a right to be.

“Jesus,” Clint says, and the vampire winces, which, Clint knows better, _honestly,_ he does. “I mean, fuck, sorry. Do you ever feed?” It’s an exasperated question, one that’s rhetorical. He doesn’t expect an answer.

But Steve says, “I try not to,” and Clint’s hands falter where they’re putting together his drink.

“You… what?” Clint asks, thinking, okay, maybe he misheard, right?

Only Steve says it again: “I try not to.”

“Do you want to die? Go on a killing spree? Those are really your only options otherwise, buddy.”

Steve grimaces. “Nah. I come here, don’t I?”

And Clint feels cold. “Do you only feed when you’re here?” he asks, because, surely he’s misunderstood. That’s… “That’s not enough!”

Steve shrugs. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Clint agrees slowly. “Just, Je—I mean, fuck, come here a little more often, will you?”

Steve grimaces. “Can’t.”

Clint wants to ask why, but more people are showing up, wanting drinks and clamoring for attention. “We’re not done,” he tells Steve, trying to be stern. He’s pretty sure he fails. He’s got like three band aids on his face and hands, and two of his eyebrows are singed from a magic mishap. He’s not really an intimidating presence, especially not to a vampire, even one as baby as Steve.

Sure enough, when he’s finally free to head back, Steve’s gone, money left behind, folded neatly on his napkin and tucked under an empty glass.

Clint sighs.

Next time.

He hopes even harder that there will be a next time, knowing what he now knows.

**

Clint’s taking out the trash in the early hours pre-dawn, closing down the bar for the night, when he catches sight of a figure lurking in the darkness.

He drops the bag of trash and snaps his fingers, fire appearing between them that he cups in his hand and gently encourages to grow enough to be a decent light source.

In the flickering shadows, flinching away from the light, he sees… “Steve?”

The vampire looks bad. He’s leaning against the wall, and his whole body is shaking slightly, tremors Clint knows are uncontrollable as he resists the urge to feed.

“What the fuck, Steve,” Clint says on a sigh, carefully approaching him. “Why didn’t you come inside?”

Steve’s fangs are out and visible, giving him a sight lisp when he speaks, voice shaking. “No more money.”

Clint is so abruptly done. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says. “Let me help you.”

“How?” The word comes out so plaintive, so defeated, that Clint aches.

“I have a friend. She’s been a vampire for a few centuries. She can teach you how to avoid feeding on people, or how to feed without causing any harm.”

“I don’t want this,” Steve admits, the words almost broken. “I never wanted this.”

“I can tell,” Clint agrees. “But this is what you are now. It’s better to learn to control it than resist it and end up hurting someone.”

Steve’s head drops, his chest heaving as he breathes deeply and tries to hold in what look like sobs.

“Come inside so I can get you something, and I’ll call Natasha,” Clint coaxes gently. He knows better, he does, but he reaches out and catches hold of Steve’s arm anyway.

He holds his breath, waiting for Steve’s instincts to get the better of him, waiting for him to attack. Steve’s whole body jerks, like he wants to, but then… he goes slack once more, pliant, and allows Clint to tug him inside.

**

Clint doesn’t see Steve again for one year, three months, and two days.

Not that he’s been counting.

But one night, Steve shows up, and it’s almost like he hasn’t even been gone, except for how he isn’t as unnaturally pale. Instead, there’s a healthy pink to his skin.

“Hey there stranger,” Clint greets warmly. “How are you?”

“Good,” Steve replies, and he looks it. “Be better if you agreed to go out with me some time,” and his words are confident, but he fidgets a little nervously.

Clint bites back a laugh—but just, yes, time with Natasha has definitely been good for Steve and his confidence. Clint is so happy to see it.

“I could maybe be persuaded,” Clint agrees, pushing a finished drink toward Steve. “As a thank you, or…?” Because he wants to be sure that he isn’t reading into this, wants to be on the same page. He’s liked Steve from the moment he saw him, likes him even more now that he seems settled in his skin, but he’d be happy to just be friends if it means he can keep Steve in his life.

“As a date,” Steve says, and there is a faint blush to his cheeks when he says it that Clint revels in.

Clint’s smile grows. “I’d like that.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Clint laughs. “Steve. Yes, really.” Someone calls his name from down the bar, and Clint groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He ignores them for now, instead asking Steve, “When?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Clint beams. “Yeah, okay. I can get someone to cover the bar.” His name is called again, and he sighs. “I gotta—”

“Go,” Steve agrees, smile wide. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”

By the time there’s a lull, Steve is gone again, money tucked under his glass like always. This time, however, there’s also a phone number on a slip of paper folded around the bills.

**

Clint has seen many, many things in his time running the Witch’s Brew, including a starving baby vampire who was nonetheless polite and exhibited ruthless self-control.

But the best thing he’s seen probably ever in his life is Steve, dressed up in dark wash jeans and a button up shirt, picking him up for their first date.


End file.
